


oil and water.

by kristannuccia



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-31
Updated: 2013-01-31
Packaged: 2017-11-27 15:23:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/663537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kristannuccia/pseuds/kristannuccia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>they both hate the weight of losing a match.</p>
            </blockquote>





	oil and water.

**Author's Note:**

> for rayan and teti.  
> slight AU since the match they're talking about is completely fictitious. mentions of torres/gerrard and agger/finnan, but nothing that goes beyond the pure allusion. last but not least, b is my one and only. thank you immensely.  
> first published on april 7, 2010. there might be a sequel to this coming soon? ha.

_One in the same, two of a kind  
And neither of us can see._

*

 

“Best striker in the world _my ass_.”

 

Fernando raises his eyes from where he’s unlacing his boots, taken aback and almost incredulous of what his teammate’s just said.

 

“Huh? Are you talking to me?”

 

He clenches his jaw and a sudden rush of heat flushes his cheeks. His eyebrows furrowed in a frown and his lips parted slightly, highlighting his questioning tone. He glares at Daniel like he’s ready to electrocute him with just a flutter of his eyelashes.

Daniel’s expression doesn’t change one bit, he throws his muddy boots into the locker, blatantly ignoring the question. He then casually drops his grass-stained, sweaty shirt right on Fernando’s face while passing him by, proceeding towards the showers.

 

“Ow, sorry mate.”

 

Fernando stays still for a moment, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply. He grabs the shirt and throws it to the ground, mentally screaming his rage in series of tangled multilingual curses. He’s not an impulsive person when he’s off the pitch, and he has great self control, so he manages to calm down by deciding not to pick up the provocation the defender just threw at him. He’s more mature than that. If the Dane wants to fight, he’ll have to do so much better than that.

 

“You _suck_ , Torres!”

 

Daniel has stepped out of his pants and disappeared into the shower area. Even though Nando can’t see his face, he knows he has that fucking smirk plastered on his lips, and the laughter coming from the showers confirms his theory.

 

Fernando takes a deep breath and bites hard on his lip to remind his conscience of what he has just stated to himself.

He stomps his booted foot on the discarded shirt, smudging the pristine number 5 a bit more pitilessly than he should’ve.

His supposed _friend_ is seriously starting to work on his nerves.

 

*

 

He undresses himself quickly, trying to control his rage as not to have his stuff thrown across and scattered all over the dressing room, forcing it all into his training bag instead. He’s torturing his lip; something he always does when he’s nervous.

Thinking about that damn missed goal drives him crazy. He could’ve equalized with that goddamn shot, which skimmed the post and went right to the stands instead of hitting the back of the net. If only he had controlled the ball a split-second longer, he wouldn’t have missed it. He’s aware of the fact that he’s the culprit of that missed chance to get at least one blessed point, and he has no problems in admitting his faults. If only it wasn’t for Daniel making him feel like he just lost them a Champions League final with a missed penalty. Okay, every match is important now, it really is, but damn that fucking Dane for giving this stupid missed goal such a big importance and making him feel like shit.

He steps into the showers area, and Daniel is still there.

The defender can’t hear Fernando’s silken footsteps over the sound of the running water.

Fernando takes the furthest shower available to avoid any further conversation.

Turning the water on would announce his presence and shake the Dane from his intense thinking. Fernando lingers on the grasp he has on the water knob, momentarily enthralled by the vision in front of him.

Eyes closed, arm stretched forwards with his hands pressed to the tiled wall, supporting his leaning body, head bent backwards and the warm spray of water drumming reverently on his face.

A heavy knot forms in the pit of Fernando’s stomach, and a mixed feeling of awe and rage and something more, uh, _confusing_ , creeps inside him.

He stares at Dan’s mouth, bewitched by the fluid movement of his lips parting to gather water and releasing it again moments afterwards. He drinks in the sight of his arms, his shoulders, perfect muscles shaped by just as perfect artworks. The colors, the darkness, the contrast with his naturally pale skin. His fingers mindlessly, slowly twitching against the white tiles, his fingertips caressing the slick surface.

Those long, lean legs that look so smooth to the touch, so skinny, so fragile and indeed hold power and strength and precision.

The perfect curve of his belly, of his hipbones, _of -_

Fernando’s eyes widen in shock the moment his mind is abruptly brought back to reality. He feels himself blushing furiously and a pang of shame bites on his conscience for just _daring_ to linger his look on his teammate’s body for that long. He turns his back, haphazardly turning the knob and setting the temperature of the water unusually low.

Daniel is an asshole, he’s trying to make him feel guilty, he can’t let his mind wander off like that, and he can’t be getting strange thoughts about one of his teammates, especially if it’s _him_. You’re not _that_ easy, Fernando.

 

*

 

Dan is aware of Nando’s presence by the sound of another shower running.

He’s shaken from his thoughts and looks to where the sound comes from, noticing that Nando decided to go for the furthest shower he could use. He’s clearly trying to avoid dialogue, but Daniel’s still pissed off about the loss. He just knows that everybody will blame the defense for not having been able to keep a clean sheet and there’s nothing that he can say or do to prove the public opinion wrong. It’s obviously not that simple, but journalists, with their stupid questions, are eager to find a culprit for every loss. And this time Daniel has someone to actually blame, to torture and vent his frustrations on, so he’s going to rub it right into his face until he can’t be anymore satisfied.

 

Fernando is just done rinsing his hair as Dan speaks.

 

“I didn’t know that superstar players were allowed to shower with the rest of the crew.”

“Shut up, Daniel.”

“Oh, so goldilocks can _speak_ , at least.”

“Daniel. Please.”

“Please? Please what, Torres? Please stop mocking me or I’ll cry? Huh?”

Nando turns the water off and opens his mouth as to speak, but he’s brutally interrupted by Daniel again.

“I already know what you’re about to say and no; I’m not going to let you say it because it’s just a bunch of bullshit. I don’t give a fuck if you just got a knee surgery, I had back surgery not too long ago and I’ve been running my ass on and off the pitch for months since then.”

“I don-”

“Shut the fuck up and let me finish, will you? In all the time I’ve been at this club I’ve fucking broke my metatarsal and my fingers and lost one tooth and I even fucking passed out on the pitch with a bleeding wound to my forehead, _still_ , on the next match I was playing with stitches and a stupid bandage. And despite all this, I’m still there trying to prevent opponents from scoring and screwing things worse than they already are.”

A moment of silence later, he swallows the lump that’s formed in his throat.

“What did _you_ do in the meantime, other than improving your hairstyle, getting cheesy tattoos and increasing your wage by shooting a bunch of ridiculous advertisements?” Silence again, an accusatory finger raised towards the striker’s face.

“You know what? You’re pretty damn _useless_.”

Fernando takes a moment to let Daniel’s voice stop reverberating against the walls and inside his head, and then he speaks. Not quite entirely connecting his brain to his mouth though.

“Oh so everybody hail the Great Dane! The man who won’t back down in front of anything! The one who plays what? Ten games per season when he’s really lucky and who always ends up spending more time in physiotherapy and treatments than actual training! Wake up from your dream, Agger, without you, the team still _works_. I’m not sure if they would work just as well without me, though. You need someone to score for your team, to actually gain points; you can’t only keep clean sheets to save your life. If there’s someone who’s plainly useless here, then you should revise your gauges my dear, because that’d be _you_.”

Daniel bites the inside of his cheek, trying to hide the sting in his pride that such words caused. He still smirks, outwardly unimpressed. He steps out of the spray, forgetting about the still running water, and walks towards Fernando, stopping only when he’s a foot away from the striker. When he speaks, his voice is calmer than moments before.

“I can’t believe what you just said, Torres. You’re supporting my cause then, you’re admitting that we need to score goals, not _miss_ them all the fucking time. With ridiculous players like _you_ on the team it’s gonna be quite impossible to win anything though, since you’re not even able to fucking _equalize_ one goal after 90 fucking minutes! We were playing bloody Blackburn, for fuck’s sake, are you aware of that?”

“I _am_ aware of that, but you should know that matches don’t always go as you planned.”

“The only thing I know is that I ran my lungs off on that fucking pitch for 94 fucking minutes and _still_ I didn’t get a win. _This_ is what I know. And what the hell, I’ll even be getting the blame for not keeping a fucking clean sheet! Can you see the irony in all this?” he snorts. “This, _this_ is your entire fault you stupid ass, if it wasn’t for your immense ego and obvious lack of brain, we’d have won this match.”

“Hey, watch your mouth. I’m losing my patience with you.”

“Ohh Fernando, and what are you going to do exactly? Punch me? Or tell daddy Stevie that your big bad teammate is badmouthing you so he’d grab me and spank me? I’m not you, my darling; I don’t suck his cock in the showers just so he’d call me his _Golden Boy_.” With emphatic air quotes on the last two words.

Fernando’s rage is on the verge of exploding. He looks into Daniel’s eyes, straight into them, as if to warn him about the thin ice he’s currently walking on. Daniel’s expression is still unreadable, filled with bitter amusement. His fist clenches and unclenches nervously and the chewing on his lips mirrors Fernando's.

“I’ve had enough. Goodbye, Daniel.”

He breaks eye contact and makes his way to the doorway. He stops in his track when the Dane speaks again.

“Ahhh so it’s true, isn’t it? You like to have big ol’ Gerrard rubbing your insides and making you scream like a slut, don’t you?”

Daniel spits the words like venom to Fernando’s back. His face is painted with a mixture of disgust and pain.

 

Fernando closes his eyes and frowns deeply, but doesn’t turn his back, doesn’t give the answer away. ( _you don’t deserve to know the truth_ )

Daniel’s not sure if admittance or just exhaustion is the reason why he didn’t get an answer. ( _you_ couldn’t _have done it, please prove me wrong._ )

 

So he goes on.

“You are disgusting.”

And on.

“ You’re not good enough to win us a fucking match, let alone a fucking _title_. You don’t deserve to be wearing this badge” he smacks his own chest, leaving a red mark on his skin “you’re not fucking _worth_ it!”

Fernando is sick of this conversation. He’s had enough and all he wants to do is _hurt_ Daniel, hurt him really badly, because the building rage in his chest tells him that he’s crossed the limit, he doesn’t deserve any less.

He rolls his eyes in a dramatic movement and inhales deeply, as if he’s dealing with a five-year-old kid who just smudged his face with tomato sauce. He turns to face Daniel and drops the bomb, keeping a perfectly straight face, no emotion seeping from his features.

“You’re just bitter because you know that everybody here think you’re an asshole and the only one who ever disagreed had to eventually escape all the way down to Spain to detoxify himself from your poisoning effect.”

Daniel feels his body tense instantly.

 

_No_.

 

No, he didn’t. He _couldn’t_. He can’t have just brought _Finns_ up. He doesn’t even _know_ Finns. He shouldn’t have even dared _mentioning_ him.  
Beyond all his expectations, he feels a crack on his own shell opening like an abyss, and the sting of pain in his chest is deadly overwhelming. The buzz in his ears is deafening and tears are burning behind his eyelids, but he’s not going to spill them, not now, not in front of _him_.

He just can’t restrain his body long enough to allow his good sense to get in the way.

 

A pang of pain in his knuckles tells him that Fernando’s jawbone is hard, and his tender skin breaks under the violent collision with his fist.

 

Fernando doesn’t fall, he manages his balance, and he still keeps a blank face even though a line of blood is trickling down from his split lip. The liquid starts dropping on the white floor in large, widening, bright spots.

Daniel is startled into realization of what he’s just done, his fist still twitching in a feeble attempt to lessen the pain of the bruises forming on his knuckles; his lips are dry and trembling with the last shades of the wrath which possessed him only seconds earlier. His eyes are dark, darker than oil and coal and the deepest of earth.

He doesn’t regret doing it.

Fernando licks his lips and spits a mouthful of blood to the ground. He rubs his mouth with the back of his hand.

 

“Fine. Can I go now?”

 

It’s not a question. He turns on his heels and leaves without waiting for Daniel to answer, Daniel’s breath’s heavy and his mind’s as hazy as the room he’s standing inside of.

*


End file.
